The Dating Game
by Merrin
Summary: Like many a fic, this one begins with a sex dream. The question is: how does it end?


**Title:**

The Dating Game

**Author:**

Merrin

**Disclaimer:**

All characters and settings are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and Fox. I am borrowing them for my own amusement, and will not attempt to use them for profit.

**Note:**

Like many a fic, this one starts with a sex dream. The question is: how does it end?****

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_She was mesmerized by his lower lip, just a slight fullness that invited her mouth. As she captured it with her teeth, her hands slid over the skin of his smooth, hard chest._

_This was going to be like that first time: that bone crushing, punishing first time. He bent her backwards until she thought she would break in half. There was no undressing, just moving clothing out of the way frantically, the uncomfortable twisting of skirt and panties. With her right hand against the straight lines and hard planes of his face, she guided him with her left._

Tap, tap, tap...

_... It was hard and fast, as if foreplay were the dance they had been doing since the moment they met: as if all of that was done and nothing was left but to thrust against each other with bruising intensity. Even beyond orgasm, their bodies kept straining together, seeking something else. Next would come a shattering... of bodies, of souls._

_'Ripper,' she whispered. Soon she would have to scream it_

Tap, tap, tap - louder this time...

_The dream dissolved, colors running like sidewalk chalk melting in the rain. Her reluctantly waking mind wailed in protest. Who...?_

"Mom, are you awake?" her daughter's voice came from outside her bedroom door.

_Crap._ Surrounded by tangled sheets and scattered pillows, Joyce's body was taut with unreleased tension; she stretched deeply, regretfully, then called out, "I'm awake; come on in."

Buffy entered the room, freshly scrubbed, wearing jeans and a bra, with wide-awake energy in her face. "Are you okay? It's so strange for you to sleep this late."

"I'm fine, honey," said Joyce, automatically switching into parental mode: cheery and impenetrable.

"Mom, can you...?" Buffy held a fuscia blouse in one hand, and the sewing kit in the other.

Eyebrow raised, Joyce questioned, "You can stake a vampire all by yourself, but you can't sew a button on your own shirt? What kind of a mark do you take me for?"

"Please," Buffy pleaded as Joyce frowned. It was only a ritual; they both knew she would say 'yes'.

"Give it to me," she sighed, as the silken fabric slid into her hands. She had to smile, though, as she watched Buffy dart out of the room: her quicksilver girl, as bright and lovely as you could hope.

As her fingers worked steadily, sewing with neat, small loops of thread, Joyce had time to wake up, to put her mental house in order.

It was worrisome how often her unconscious mind revisited that recent supernaturally induced tryst with Rupert Giles. It was definitely too perilous for daytime contemplation. Every waking fantasy she had attempted climaxed with Buffy walking in on them, and screaming in horror, 'Mo-om!'

Joyce's lower lip pouted a little. Sexual fantasies had been so much easier when she was younger, and before she was somebody's mother. _It's not fair; even mothers get, you know... horny._

_Ow!_ _Damn it!_ She had pricked herself with the needle. She sucked on the injured finger, properly chastised for her bad, _bad _thoughts.

As far as real life was concerned, there was no way that anything could ever come of what had happened between her and Rupert, mainly because of Buffy, of course. And God forbid she ever found out. The biggest problem now: how would the two of them ever be able to get past their awkwardness with each other, the dignified middle-aged librarian, and the shy middle-aged single mother? Selective amnesia was the only coping strategy she could come up with, and it just hadn't been all that effective so far.

Buffy ran back into the room, startling Joyce out of her reverie. "Thanks, Mom. Gotta go."

She and the bright pink blouse were gone before Joyce had a chance to draw breath, and her words died in a weak murmur: "Bye, honey, have a good day at school."

Her finger was bleeding a lot for a simple pinprick. Joyce went to the medicine cabinet to get a plastic bandage. She studied her reflection in the mirror and took inventory. She could pass for maybe a few years younger than her true age. Nice smile, though sometimes a little forced. A bit worn around the eyes, she acknowledged. Wrinkles, yes, but it was more than that. Worldly wisdom? Or middle-aged bitterness?

She tossed her pajamas in a pile on the bathroom floor and examined her naked body in the mirror. _Okay, so, that sags there, and this pooches out a little right here, but... what do you expect?_ She had to admit, she looked pretty damn good for her age. Lucky for her, all of the scars were on the inside.

She'd married someone she was passionate about, and though it had given her a precious daughter, she had paid a price for her naivety. That kind of love-craziness was for when you were young and stupid, or when you were under the influence of evil magic candy, _or_ when you were deep in sleep, and therefore not to be held responsible for your own wayward dreams.

In her real-world life, Joyce Summers would have to forget about mad passion, and settle for a nice man, if one of those was even available. She reached over to turn on the faucet, then tested the temperature of the water coming from the showerhead before stepping into the tub.

A half hour later, she sat at the computer, lightly wiggling the keys under her fingertips. The bandage on her index finger made her feel awkward, clumsy.

As soon as she was logged on, she checked for his screenname: he was online, too. She felt a little bit of a lurch, just a faint shimmer of that schoolgirl feeling, where your stomach turns over in a sickening way when that one particular guy comes into view.

They met on a community message board: she knew he was intelligent, a little old-fashioned, a perfect gentleman. She'd been wary at first, careful, but they'd been chatting for weeks, and he'd never done more than ::kiss:: her hand.

This was the first time Joyce had pm'd him. She felt kind of... daring. She typed:

_Hello. Am I bothering you?_

The response came almost immediately:

_Never too busy for you._

Joyce exhaled; she hadn't known she was holding her breath. She felt a tingling: a small electrical charge that ran from her fingertips on the keys to the back of her neck.

They chatted for a few minutes, talking about the weather, current events. She was waiting for him; she could feel her breath moving high and light in her chest. After a few minutes, he re-opened the topic they had briefly touched on the previous day:

_Don't let me rush you, but... I would like to meet you._

She hesitated a moment, then:__

_I don't know._

She could almost imagine she heard his calm, steady voice reassuring her:__

_I understand your concern, dear lady, and I want to be sensitive to it. A public place. Bring a friend with you, if you'd feel more comfortable._

Her fingers hovered over the keys. While she hesitated, he went on:

_Do you like Icees?_

_Yes_, she typed, and smiled a smile he couldn't see.

_How do you feel about miniature golf?_

Miniature golf? She shuddered a little, then banished thoughts of... Ted. Besides, miniature golf wasn't the issue. It was about being able to take a calculated risk, or resigning herself to being alone for the rest of her life.

_Okay,_ she typed. She exhaled a long, slow breath, and let her body relax. _Why not?_

Exactly. Why not?

_Gosh darn it,_ the response came back, decorated by a dancing smiley face,_ I can hardly wait to meet you. You're the first woman who's impressed me as a true lady since my dear Edna May passed away, so very long ago. My civic duties simply don't allow for much socializing. I'm pleased as punch that I finally get to meet you. Do me a favor... Call me Richard._


End file.
